


In Case of Emergency

by Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Modern with Magic, Alternate Universe - Sports, Communication is hard, F/M, Football, M/M, Magic Revealed, Multi, Non-Explicit Sex, Period-Typical Homophobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-24
Updated: 2016-06-24
Packaged: 2018-07-17 22:47:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,078
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7289158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells/pseuds/Tintinnabulation_of_the_Bells
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes two football accidents, one car crash and ninety-six sleepless hours for Merlin and Arthur to get it right.</p>
            </blockquote>





	In Case of Emergency

Arthur's in Brazil when it the first incident, but Merlin's still in England so he's snoring softly in bed when the news breaks. His phone buzzes twice, but he has a strict no-communication-before-coffee policy, so he tosses it to the bed and slouches his way over to the kitchen where the promise of caffeine awaits. After an impatient five minutes, he pours the bitter coffee into a mug and sips. His nose wrinkles--this is a new brand, and one he won't be buying again--but it's coffee nonetheless, so he drinks it grudgingly. He stumbles back into his room, eyes still bleary, and half-heartedly picks up his phone. Several emails pop up in his notifications, but he can ignore the contents of those for now so he swipes them away quickly. The only other notification must have come from the sports news app he'd only recently installed, and he's about to dismiss it as well when he actually reads the headline.

_Arthur Pendragon, center for the Mercer Dragons and heir to the Pendragon Arms manufacturing empire, injured in exhibition game in Brazil_

"Shit" is the first word that pops into his head, followed by "what the hell," "fuck" and "shit" again just for good measure. He checks his phone again, scrolls through his email, refreshes his inbox and even pokes into the spam folder ("Hurry up! This offer expires in two days!) but nothing. No email, text message, phone call, or Facebook message mentioning anything about Arthur Pendragon.

He opens the article, and its length is immediately discouraging. It’s one of those developing stories with a paragraph providing no further elaboration beyond the information already given in the headline, and Merlin wants to slam the phone down on the table, but he needs it for what he's about to do next so he settles for punching a pillow instead. He pulls out his phone and types out a text as fast as his fumbling fingers can manage. He's too wracked with anxiety to manage much beyond a perfunctory _What the hell happened?_ which he sends to Lance, Gwaine and every single player whose number sits in his contact list. After a pause, he types out another text message and sends it just to Lance.

_Why did no one contact me?_

He waits an agonizing fifteen minutes before a reply hits his phone. By that time, he's drained the rest of his coffee and begun to bite at his fingernails, a bad habit from childhood he never seems to fully kick.

To: Merlin  
From: Gwaine  
_A alive and will be fine._

Will be fine, as in he is not fine now.

 _What does will be fine mean? What's wrong now?_ he types, cursing the fact that his words can't fully convey the urgency he actually feels.

To: Merlin  
From: Gwaine  
_It means hes got a concussion that some docs are fussing over, but it's probs nothing. princess is always dramatic_

Merlin's halfway through a reply when another message pops up.

_Chill Merlin. Lance w/ him, all good_

Merlin deletes his half-composed message and takes several deep breaths. It's ironic, Gwaine telling him to chill, but then again Gwaine is often blase about small things like safety and potentially life-threatening head injuries. He exchanges a few more texts, manages to work out that Arthur is currently receiving a CT scan for his head. After he sends his third message asking some variation on _are you sure that's all_? he receives a reply from Gwaine that just oozes annoyance and exasperation ( _Srsly, fly out yourself if you care this much_ ) so he puts the phone to the side. He glances at the clock on the nightstand; the hands read 8:45. At this point, he'll count himself lucky if he manages to arrive less than ten minutes late to class. Not that his students will complain--no one likes an early morning discussion section.

He throws on clothes, yanks a comb through his hair and rushes out the door into the pouring rain. His umbrella is still sitting in his closet, and God knows where his rain jacket is, so he settles for tucking his book bag beneath his shirt and hoping the rain doesn't seep through the fabric and into the papers he spent an obnoxious number of hours grading. When he skids into class, he doesn't begrudge the students the strange looks they're giving him. With his hair plastered to his head, he resembles a drowned rat.

"Apologies for my tardiness," he says, clearing his throat. "I graded your essays"--several people groan--"so everyone just look through the pile until you find yours." He pulls out the stack of paper from his book bag and breathes a sigh of relief when they feel dry. "The average was a B, so not terrible, but all of you have room for improvement."

He uses the distraction to discretely fix the buttons his shirt and regain his composure. By the time the last student has her essay, his senses have returned and he feels halfway ready to lead the discussion.

"Save your questions about the grading for after class. Now, who wants to explain William the Conqueror's battle strategy to me?"

It's a long section, made even longer by the mass of students who gather around him after class pointing to various notes on their essays with confusion. He responds to them with remarkable patience, but he's nearly late to his meeting with his adviser. There, he scrambles through the usual excuses as to why such and such for his dissertation wasn't completed, but he's never cared less about Gaius' opinion. After another flop of an answer, Gaius pauses in their conversation.

“It’s a good thing your writing is more eloquent than your speech, Mr. Emrys,” he says, looking at Merlin over spectacles.

“What?” says Merlin. “Sorry, I mean, yeah, sorry.” His eyes flit to the door and his fingers hover over the phone that sits in his jean pocket.

Gaius narrows his eyes. “By all means, if you need to be somewhere else, don’t let me waste your time,” he says in a tone that suggests he has a very low opinion of the value of Merlin’s time.

It’s enough to snap Merlin firmly back to the present, and he flushes as he looks down. “I’m sorry, Gaius. I just received some news about a friend this morning—he’s probably going to be fine, but…”

Gaius’ expression softens with sympathy, and Merlin’s not sure he likes the pity in his eyes. “A good friend of yours then?”

“Yes,” responds Merlin automatically, then reconsiders. “Or something like that.”

Gaius sighs with a heaviness only afforded to those at least twice the age of those around them. “Well, I think it will be more productive for both of us to cut short this meeting for now.” Merlin nods gratefully. “I expect to see you sharp and prepared next week.”

Merlin thanks Gaius and exits hastily, nearly slipping on the steps that lead out of the history department building. The sun peaks through the clouds and the rain has stopped, so Merlin allows himself a more leisurely walk back. Besides, he knows he won’t be able to concentrate on work once he returns, so there’s no need to rush.

He’s halfway through cooking dinner that evening when his phone buzzes. He nearly drops the carton of eggs he’s holding, but manages to regain his composure in time to save them. A quick glance at the phone tells him the message is from Lance.

To: Merlin  
From: Lance  
_Gwaine told me he already talked to you this morning and that you were a little worried. The CT scan came back and it’s clean. He just has a concussion and he’s flying back with the rest of us tonight. I’m sorry you found out through the news—I didn’t think it would matter this much. Lance_

Arthur is fine. Merlin allows himself to savor this knowledge, rolls it around his tongue and his mouth until the taste of it envelops his senses. Arthur is fine, and Merlin doesn’t need to worry anymore. Except that he will worry, and he was worrying, and the degree to which he was worrying puzzles him. He and Arthur are friends, but logically, Lance is correct. There’s no reason for anyone to think of contacting Merlin when Arthur is hurt. They’re just friends, regular, normal friends.

When Merlin visits Arthur the next day, Arthur teases him mercilessly. Apparently Gwaine decided to read all of Merlin’s texts aloud on the plane ride back.

“Heard you got your panties in a twist,” he says, smirking. Merlin wants to smack him, but thinks better of it.

“Don’t get too full of yourself,” he retorts. “Any more brain damage, and they’ll be carting home a vegetable.”

“As long as you can still kick a football, we don’t care” crows Leon from across the room, and a smattering of laughs fills the room.

Arthur frowns. “Hilarious, all of you. A regular bunch of comedians. Next time when it’s your brain being kicked around, see if I care.”

The good-natured jibes continue, although Arthur’s comebacks lack their usual bite. Merlin chalks it up to the concussion—no one is at their wittiest with a bruised brain. Still, Merlin lingers even as the rest of the team slowly files out until at last it’s just Leon, and Leon lives there. When Merlin looks at Arthur, he notices the squinting, the small winces when too much light filters in through the window. It’s time for him to leave.

“Merlin,” says Arthur softly just as Merlin reaches the door.

“Yes, Arthur?” he says.

Arthur pauses, as if just realizing he needs to actually say something now that he’s captured Merlin’s attention. It takes him a moment, but he finally speaks. “Thanks for caring, I guess.”

Merlin dips his head. “Anytime,” he mumbles, and walks out the door.

Arthur's concussion keeps him from playing for a solid two weeks, and Merlin finds himself at his flat more often than not. The first two days, Merlin actually has a reason to be there. With Leon and the rest of the team busy with practice and games, Merlin is the best person to keep an eye on Arthur and make sure he doesn't push himself too much and exacerbate the issue. Merlin volunteers because, aside from leading discussion sections and his meetings with Gaius, he can complete his work almost anywhere. He makes himself at home immediately by forming a small pile of pillows on the floor and draping a blanket across to create the perfect little reading nook.

"Nesting, are we?" says Arthur from behind the couch.

Merlin jumps in surprise and nearly spills his coffee on the book he's reading, which would be bad because a) the book he's reading is quite old and quite rare, and he's not keen on angering the Albion librarians more than he already has, and b) more importantly, it would be a waste of perfectly good coffee. Fortunately, the coffee only sloshes a little in its mug, and the few escaping drops fall onto Merlin's pants rather than anything more valuable.

"Er, it's comfortable?" he says, unsure of how to respond.

"Maybe it's genetic or something," says Arthur, sitting down on one of the plump, hideous chairs across from the coffee table. 

"What?" says Merlin confusedly. 

"It's a sort of bird, isn't it? A merlin, I mean," explains Arthur as if this is an obvious connection. 

Merlin, for one, does not appreciate condescension from a concussed football player. Between the two of them, Merlin is the brains of the friendship, and Arthur the brawn. "People normally think of the wizard when they hear my name, actually," he huffs out.

Arthur settles back into the chair almost lazily. "Other people might, but personally I think there's a greater chance of you being related to a bird than to some mythical wizard," he drawls. "At least birds actually exist."

Merlin laughs nervously because, regardless of whether or not a wizard named Merlin existed centuries ago, one certainly exists now and no one, especially not Arthur, needs to know about that. Arthur gives him a funny look, so Merlin hurries to retaliate.

"Between the two of us, I think we know who the birdbrain is," says Merlin. "Too bad you're head's not as hard as a woodpecker's."

Arthur glares at him. "I'm glad you find my concussion hilarious," he says and picks at several loose threads on the chair's upholstery. "Just a couple of days ago, you wouldn't stop bugging Gwaine about it."

"That was different," says Merlin. "I didn't know what had happened to you, and no one bothered to tell me. I had to find out from my sports news app."

Arthur halts his slow dismantling of the chair--unfortunate, really, since the sooner it's destroyed the sooner it can be replaced with some less garish--and frowns. He appears almost pensive, and it unnerves Merlin. Finally, Arthur says, "If you care that much, the next time something like this happens, I'll ask someone to call you."

"I do care that much." The words slip out before Merlin has a chance to consider their implications. He winces, anticipating the ribbing that's sure to follow.

"Okay then," says Arthur. 

Merlin sputters on his coffee. "Okay then?"

Arthur gives him another one of those patented, Pendragon glares that radiates impatience and barely-concealed disbelief at someone's stupidity. Of late, it's been directed at Merlin more than anyone else. "Is that too complicated for you to understand?"

Merlin shakes his head. "No, no."

Arthur covers his eyes with his hand. "Good, because I'm starting to have a headache, and your inability to grasp the basics of the English language is making it worse."

Arthur is lucky Merlin cares, because Merlin is the one preparing his tea, and he knows exactly where the laxatives are kept in the flat.

 

When Merlin thinks about it, his friendship with Arthur is truly an accident. There’s no fate involved, unless fate is controlled by the housing coordinator at Albion University. Merlin’s first roommate freshman year of school had been Gilly, a man born with not just a silver spoon in his mouth but a whole silver china set in his lap. After three weeks of pleas for Gilly to stop borrowing his possessions, eating his food, sexiling him at all hours of the day and smoking so much weed he could hardly breathe through the fumes, Merlin finally approached his RA, who in turn approached the housing coordinator, who told Merlin that due to his father’s generous donations to the school, Gilly would not be moving but Merlin was welcome to. One of the only people with a spare in their hall was Lance du Lac. The university tried to assign athletes single rooms when possible, ostensibly because of their strict training schedule (though really it was probably because of the smell, thought Merlin as he bought his third bottle of air-freshener in as many months), but Lance didn’t seem to mind his new roommate. He had been polite, almost unnervingly so, but nothing more than an acquaintance for the first half of the year.

Then, in January, Lance’s father died, and Merlin found himself dragging Lance to meals, assisting him with homework and pleading with Lance’s professors on his behalf. Lance watched Merlin’s action as if in some sort of stupor, but Merlin persisted in his attempts to keep his roommate as functional as possible. Honestly, Merlin had no idea what Lance thought, but he understood loss, particularly the loss of the father, and he would be damned if Lance, a fellow scholarship kid, dropped out because of his terrible luck. In March, Merlin walked into the common room to find Lance reading through a letter.

“What’s that?” he asked, not sure if he would actually receive an answer.

“A letter from my father,” said Lance. “He wrote it once he realized he was sick. My mum just sent it to me.”

Merlin sat down on the bed next to Lance. “I have a letter too,” he said.

Lance looked up in surprise. “A letter from your father?”

Merlin nodded. “He wrote it before he left. He promised to come back someday, but I tracked him down a few years back, found out he died ages ago, not too long after he left my mum.”

“Oh, fuck,” said Lance. “That really sucks.”

“Yeah, it does,” said Merlin. “But it’s better than your situation, in some way. It’s hard to miss someone you haven’t seen since you were four.”

Lance was silent for a long moment. Finally, he spoke. “Thank you, Merlin, for taking care of me.”

“It’s not a problem,” said Merlin, brushing aside the thanks.

“No, I know it was. I know I haven’t been easy to live with, but you went above and beyond. I know you talked to Professor Gregory about my paper extension, and you’ve forced me to leave the room and go to practice…” he shook his head. “You’ve been an incredible friend.”

“Friend?” said Merlin in amazement. Someone like Lance, a star member of the football team and a sure recruit to play professionally after graduation, considered Merlin a friend?

“What else do you call it?” asked Lance, and Merlin had to agree with his assessment. So the two of them became friends and roomed together sophomore year as well. Even during junior and senior year when Lance moved into the football team house, he still spent half of his time at Merlin and Gwen’s place (though that was mostly because of Gwen, Merlin’s not flattering himself). When they graduated, Merlin accepted into a PhD program at Albion and Lance the latest recruit for the Mercer Dragons, Lance invited him and Gwen out for drinks with the team. Merlin only cared about football insomuch as he cared about Lance, but even he wasn’t stupid enough to turn down the chance to meet one of the best football teams in the country.

And that was where he met Arthur Pendragon.

 

It takes a shockingly short period of time to test the strength of Arthur's promise. Several months after the concussion incident, England is playing France in a low-stakes, friendly game (or as friendly as any contest between England and France can be), but Merlin isn't watching. Normally Merlin keeps the television on in the background during these games, but the first draft of his lit review for his dissertation is due in less than a week, so he's more or less isolated himself from the outside world until it's complete.

Merlin's so deep in his reverie that he falls off the chair when the phone rings. He scrambles his way back to the desk and grabs his phone.

"Merlin Emrys speaking," he says quickly.

"Hey Merlin," says a gruff voice on the other end of the line which Merlin immediately recognizes as Percy's. "I'm just calling because Arthur asked me to."

Merlin's stomach sinks. "What happened?"

Percy clears his throat. "Dislocated shoulder from a bad tackle. They carded the bastard who did it, but if I had my way with that asshole, he'd never--"

"Percy," interjects Merlin, and he hears Percy take several deep breaths.

"Sorry about that," he growls, and Merlin snorts. He's never heard someone sound less apologetic. "Anyways, Arthur asked someone on the team to call you, and Lance is at St. Bart's with him, so I volunteered."

"How bad is it?" asks Merlin, dreading the answer.

Percy sighs. "They haven't ruled out surgery to fix some ligament damage. This isn't the first time he's dislocated this shoulder, and apparently the likelihood of it happening again increases each time."

Shit. Surgery is bad. Surgery means months of recovery time and anesthesia and pain and...

"St. Bart's, you said?" confirms Merlin.

"Yeah, but I don't really see how that matters--" but Percy isn't given a chance to finish his thought because Merlin's already hung up.

Without stopping to think clearly or consider the consequences of his actions, Merlin begins packing. He throws a water bottle, a rain jacket and a granola bar in a little drawstring bag, grabs his wallet, phone and keys and practically throws himself down the stairs of his flat. He hails the first taxi to pass the street, and within an hour he's on a train from London to Paris. He's never been to France before or taken the chunnel, but he largely ignores the feats of engineering around him and even once they pass into France, he's unmoved by the pastoral picture spread before him. He doesn't take a proper breath until he arrives at St. Bart's.

"I'm here to see Arthur Pendragon," he pants, out of breath from his sprint into the hospital.

The receptionist is decidedly clinical. "Name?" she asks with slightly accented English.

"Merlin Emrys," he says. When she raises an eyebrow, he explains, "It's Welsh."

She clicks and types at the computer. "Mr. Pendragon isn't receiving visitors at the moment," she says deadpan.

He shakes his head. "No, you don't understand, he's my friend, I just came from London to see him. If you let me call someone--

"Merlin?" calls out a familiar voice. Merlin whips his head around to see Gwaine of all people standing by the vending machine.

"Gwaine, thank God," breathes Merlin. "They said he isn't taking any visitors."

"He'll make an exception for you," says Gwaine, though a bemused expression crosses his face. "He's with me, Marie," he adds with a wink at the receptionist.

Marie blushes, and Merlin's never been more grateful for Gwaine's habit of flirting with every living person under the age of fifty. He waits impatiently while the vending machine slowly delivers Gwaine's diet coke, and then fights to control his jitters as they walk up two flights of stairs and down the hall. If Gwaine notices the slight shake in his step, he keeps quiet.

Arthur must be riding the high of painkillers because there's no way he would smile so dozily while sober. His face lights up when Merlin walks in the room, and he almost falls off the bed when he waves with his good arm. Lance, who's sitting on the bed as well, catches him and guides him gently back to the pillows. He mutters something that Merlin can't really hear, but it sounds both fond and exasperated, and if Lance isn't freaking out then maybe Arthur is fine.

"I didn't realize you were in France," says Lance, eyebrows raised. 

"I wasn't," says Merlin, "but then Percy called me and mentioned there might be surgery, so I...decided to come." His voice trails off at the end as he realizes for the first time how ridiculous this whole venture was. He traveled for several hours across the English channel because he heard his friend might have surgery. Not even life-threatening surgery, but a routine procedure. His cheeks grow warm, and he's sure they've developed that lovely shade of rudolph's nose-red.

"Well, we just heard from the doctor," says Lance carefully. "She thinks no surgery is needed for now, but if it happens again..." He jerks his head towards the door. "Our trainer is talking with a specialist."

No surgery. The relief that washes over him is overwhelming, and he can't explain its intensity. No surgery, which means the injury is normal and Arthur will recover as expected.

It also means there was no reason for Merlin to come to France.

"That's good news," he says, and everyone else in the room nods, except Arthur who's too loopy to really follow their conversation. "I guess I should head back now."

"You're leaving?" says Gwaine incredulously. "You just traveled for several hours, and you're leaving after five minutes?"

Merlin gulps and shuffles from side to side. "I mean, it seems like he's fine, and I...sort of...have something for my dissertation due soon." He rattles the drawstring bag in his hand. "I didn't even bring any of my books." It's becoming rapidly apparent to both him and everyone in the room how little thought he put into his spontaneous venture. "Tell Percy thanks for calling."

No one stops him as he leaves, but Lance's gaze follows him out the door and it prickles against his skin even as he boards the train back to England. He's home before midnight, but the image of Arthur's face aglow with happiness at the sight of Merlin keeps him up until nearly three.

The next day, Merlin grinds through his work, wishing not for the first time that his magic gave him the ability to type faster or read faster or do anything that would actually help him accomplish the mound of work in front of him more efficiently. Alas, telekinesis would have actually helped Merlin more in winning battles than reading about them in his medieval history books. He finishes his fourth cup of coffee by three in the afternoon and prepares one more, because it's just that sort of day. When he hears a knock at the door, he freezes, because only one person in the world knows his address, and Lance knows better than to show up unannounced. 

He opens the door and sees none other than Arthur Pendragon standing before him. His arm is in a sling, but he looks distinctly less stoned than he did yesterday, and Merlin can't decide if he's happy or not about this development.

"Can I come in, or do I have to say some magic password?" asks Arthur dryly. 

Merlin automatically steps aside to allow Arthur in, realizing as he does how much of a disaster his apartment really is. He scrambles to neaten up some of the stacks of books on the small dining room table, but the exercise is fruitless. Arthur's already seen everything. "Sorry about the mess," he mumbles.

Arthur appears amused. "Is this why I've never been invited to your place? I mean, I've known you three years, and God only knows how many times you've been in my flat."

"It's not normally quite this bad. I'm in the middle of a lit review, so I've had even less time to tidy up the place than usual," he says as an excuse, and it's not entirely untrue. The piles of books and papers, the stacks of dishes in the sink, the knick-knacks scattered randomly on every available flat surface--all the mess does inflame whatever sense of shame he has, but the mess isn't the reason why he's never invited Arthur or anyone else over. The truth is, his flat is his one safe zone, the one place where he allows himself to use magic with impunity and without fear. If no one ever visits, then he never needs to fear discovery. But here Arthur is, wandering around his flat, picking up objects to examine them more closely. Some unpleasant twists in his stomach.

"What's this?" asks Arthur, holding up one of the many books on magic ensconced in the corner of the living room. Merlin's fairly certain he's read through every major book on magic at this point in his fruitless attempts to understand his own abilities, but he doesn't recognize the one Arthur is holding. He must have bought it a long time ago. "History of Magic in Celtic Legend. Light reading, I'm sure." The book is easily six hundred pages long. "I will say, I knew you were a grade A dork, but I never understood how much of a nerd you really are."

"What are you doing here?" asks Merlin weakly.

"I'm visiting a friend in his home, which is a normal thing to do, by the way," says Arthur, fingering another one of the magic books. "What's less normal is traveling for three hours and across the border to visit a friend in the hospital when that friend only has a minor injury."

Warmth washes across his cheeks and up his neck. "Percy said you might need surgery, so....so I guess...I thought, maybe...if I..."

"Well don't spit it out all at once," says Arthur in that teasing tone which infuriates Merlin. "Relax. I'm not here to interrogate you, although I wouldn't mind a few intelligible answers." He crinkles his brow. "Not that anything's ever straightforward with you."

Merlin stands in his living room, feeling distinctly alien and uncomfortable. Now that Arthur is in his home, touching his possessions, a part of Merlin wants to scream, while another part longs to blurt out the truth about his magic and about the strange tingling that always seems to envelop him whenever Arthur is nearby and how maybe he thinks those two experiences are connected, like Arthur is some sort of trigger. He can't actually tell him the truth, so he settles for the only thing that makes sense right now. "I just felt like I should be there. Yesterday, I mean. I heard what happened, and I felt like I should be there."

Arthur pauses in his haphazard tactile exploration of Merlin's home. "That doesn't clarify much," he says.

 _Doesn't it_? Merlin wants to say, but he keeps his mouth shut. 

Arthur picks up another book. "But I appreciated the visit, and I felt like I should thank you for it."

The last thing Merlin wants is gratitude. "You could have just texted me or something."

Arthur grimaces like something sour just popped into his mouth. "My father might be a terrible specimen of humanity, but he did teach me basic manners. If someone comes to France for you, then you thank them in person."

"Well, now you've thanked me," says Merlin. "Your duty is done."

Arthur looks straight at Merlin and the gaze burns like whiskey traveling down his throat, except the feeling isn't just confined to his stomach. Merlin gulps as if he could possibly quench the burning and tries not to open his mouth in case he actually breathes fire. He's never done that before, but his magic still throws in a curveball every now and then.

"Do you want me to leave?" asks Arthur, and the words carry the weight of a two ton brick.

 _No_ , thinks Merlin, surprising himself with the answer, because he's kept people away from his apartment for a reason and Arthur shouldn't be an exception. In the end logic wins. "I have my lit review due soon. I need to work."

Arthur nods in understanding, and disappointment curdles in Merlin's gut. He's not sure what he expected, but apparently some small part of him wants Arthur to stay. Arthur's a gentleman, though, and he's not one to impose on someone's hospitality, so he shows himself out. As he's leaving, he stops in the doorway and glances back. "There's something about you, Merlin. I can't quite put my finger on it."

And Arthur accuses Merlin of being vague. Still, Merlin understands what Arthur means more than he cares to admit. There's always been something about Arthur as well, and Merlin's felt it since the very beginning.

 

The night Merlin met Arthur, he nearly stayed in, but Lance dragged him out of the apartment ("We just graduated, Merlin, and I will not let you be a hermit at the age of twenty one"). Lance had just signed his rookie contract with the Dragons, and the night served as an opportunity for Lance to better acquaint himself with his future teammates. Merlin didn't care much about football, but he cared about Lance and Gwen, and, as Gwen said, if nothing else, football players made for excellent eye candy. Then she'd eyed Lance such a heated look that Merlin nearly set himself on fire just to avoid ever seeing the two of them together again. In the end, he'd followed his friends to the bar and resigned himself to a night surrounded by bawdy footballers.

The first person who greeted him was Gwaine, and "greet" was a mild term for what Gwaine did. After assessing Merlin from head to toe with eyes that left Merlin feeling thoroughly exposed and indecent, he turned to Lance and said, "What's your story with this one? Does he belong to you and Gwen, or can I have a go?"

Merlin squawked indignantly, and level-headed, unflappable Lance widened his eyes in shock. Then Gwaine burst into a fit of guffaws and laughter so loud other people in the bar turned to stare. Wiping away tears of mirth and gasping for breath in between laughs, he managed to choke out, "The looks on your faces...amazing...I can't believe..." He regained some semblance of control and continued with a wink at Merlin: "But seriously, you feel like anything tonight, you let me know."

"Stop being an ass," called out one of the other players, and Merlin quickly saw the voice belonged to a giant of a man with short-cropped sandy-blond hair. "I'd apologize for Gwaine, but if I start now, I'll never be able to stop." He held out a hand for them to shake. "Percy. I promise most of us are not quite as...lascivious." 

Still reeling from his encounter with Gwaine, Merlin barely paid attention as Percy introduced the rest of the team. They all blended together--all tall, muscled, generically handsome fellows--so Merlin was entirely unprepared for his handshake with Arthur as Percy rattled off the names.

"--Arthur Pendragon, excellent striker and an even more excellent git," finished Percy. Arthur rolled his eyes and extended his hand. Automatically, Merlin grasped it with his own, and the result was electric. Not electric in one of those cheesy, romantic ways, but electric in that his magic flared up with such intensity Merlin's brain temporarily short-circuited in an attempt to halt the overload. To this day, he still has no memory of the moments following their first contact, but he knows he woke up looking at the ceiling with his head resting against a hard surface.

Someone tapped his face. "Merlin, Merlin, wake up." Lance's voice echoed strangely around him, like he was yelling in the middle of some deep cavern. "Thank God," he said as Merlin opened his eyes. "Are you alright?"

Merlin said he was or at least he tried to, but the words came out jumbled and slurred. He shook his head to re-calibrate himself, and then tried again. "Yeah, I'm fine."

"Get some water," yelled Gwen, and she crouched down in front of him. Gwen had been a student EMT in school, so she slipped into her professional persona with ease. "Does your head hurt? Your neck?" Merlin responded in the negative, so she allowed him to slowly sit up, keeping one hand at his back the entire time. "Any dizziness? Feeling light-headed?"

"No," he replied honestly, because in truth he felt entirely normal. Well, normal except for the faint tingling and buzzing across his skin, but he knew none of Gwen's medical training covered side effects from a magical overload so he decided against mentioning it. No need to worry her over symptoms she couldn't explain or fix. She passed him a glass of water, and he sipped it gratefully. "Really, I'm fine. I don't know what happened, but I feel normal."

None of the concern left her eyes, but she let him stand and test his balance. He offered a weak smile and a thumbs up, and several of the people crowded around him sighed in relief. Merlin noticed Arthur wasn't among those people. Instead, Arthur sat at one of the tables just beyond the crowd, rubbing his hand absentmindedly. Merlin joined him at the table, trailed by Gwen and Lance. 

"Your hand doing okay?" asked Merlin, gesturing at Arthur.

Arthur stopped rubbing his hand, suddenly conscious of his actions. "Yeah, it's fine. Why do you ask?"

 _Because I have no idea why my magic reacted so strongly, but I'm afraid it might have hurt you._ "I thought maybe I might have pulled you down with me," he said aloud.

Arthur smiled crookedly. "If I can handle two hundred pounds of solid muscle crashing into me, I can handle a waif like you fainting."

Merlin opened his mouth to argue, but discovered he possessed little recourse. He'd always been quite skinny, and while he preferred the term "passing out" or "loss of consciousness," he supposed one could call what he did fainting. Technically. He settled on muttering, "Prat."

Arthur smirked. "That the best you can do? Pretty weak."

"Shut up," said Merlin, and Arthur laughed. Unlike Gwaine before, Arthur's laugh felt warm and good-natured. Merlin smiled hesitantly.

"Look," said Arthur, "I don't know what happened over there, but I feel at least a little responsible even if I have no idea how it could be my fault. Let me buy you a drink."

If Gwen held any compunctions about Merlin drinking so soon after his fainting episode, she kept them to herself. Arthur bought Merlin a beer, and even though Merlin disliked beer, he barely noticed the taste that night. Merlin fielded questions about his life, his studies and drank beer until he wasn't sure where the magic buzz began and the alcohol one began. Arthur Pendragon was a heartbreakingly typical football player, but Merlin listened raptly to everything he said, hoping for a hint, a scrap of information to explain his magic's reaction. Somewhere along the way, he stopped forgot to look for a magical explanation and started paying attention to Arthur himself.

And people wonder why he cares so much. His magic discovered something that night, and Merlin's spent the past three years trying to catch up with it.

 

Six months after Arthur visits Merlin's apartment, they have sex for the first time. It's not something either of them plans, but after it's done, Arthur smirks like he's known all along this would happen. Merlin's too busy trying to settle the little sparks and tingles of power running across his skin to care. He's never reacted to Arthur's touch as strongly as he did the first time, but he still reacts to it, and sex definitely stretches the limits of his control. They're lying in Arthur's bed (Merlin hasn't invited Arthur back to his apartment, and Arthur hasn't tried to return), both breathing heavily but happily.

"I didn't know you liked men," says Merlin finally. "You dated Vivian, and then Elena, and then there was that other girl...what was her name?"

"Lara," supplies Arthur. "And it's true, I have been with more woman than men. There are more straight women than gay men out there, and I've kept my liaisons with men quieter."

Right. Arthur's a star athlete, and openly queer athletes seem to be about as common as modern day wizards. While Arthur dislikes all tabloid attention on principle, a picture of him with a girl at a club won't ruin his career. A picture with a man might.

"Does that mean we're having a...liaison?" asks Merlin. The word liaison tastes strange in his mouth. It feels too formal and old-fashioned. 

"Something like that, if you want" says Arthur. "I suppose, it's up to you what happens next. This can be a onetime thing, or it could happen again."

At this point, Merlin's dampened the buzz of magic to a more manageable thrum of gentle power, still present but not immediately distracting. He considers the situation, considers the strange mix of ecstasy and wildfire that consumed him throughout their "liaison." It's unlike anything he's experienced before, and an increasingly vocal part of his brain is screaming for it to happen again. He doesn't want to appear overeager, though. "It could happen once more, I guess," he says casually.

Arthur huffs out a laugh. "You really know how to flatter a man, don't you?"

Merlin rushes to correct him. "I mean, it would be...good...if it happened again. It was good now."

Arthur smiles fondly, and something within Merlin that has nothing to do with magic and everything to do with Arthur just melts. It's the first inkling that maybe there's more to this, to their relationship, than the uncontrollable response of his powers. He might just like Arthur Pendragon as a man.

They have sex again that night, and their affair continues throughout the next following months. They keep it quiet, but certain people become suspicious.

"Why do you spend more time at Arthur's than you do at our place?" asks Lance when Merlin's over at his place for dinner on one of the rare nights Gwen has off now that's she's begun her residency at a hospital.

Merlin's heart flips over, but he maintains a casual exterior. "Maybe I finally got sick of your disgustingly sweet romance here," he retorts.

Gwen protests, "I'm working so much now, and when Lance travels, we have so little time--"

"Kidding, kidding," says Merlin. "I get it, I do. Still glad with your choice of profession?"

"Well, it's been four years, so it's a little late to change my mind now," says Gwen, and the conversation turns away from dangerous territory into a much safer discussion of Gwen's time in the hospital. Merlin breathes a sigh of relief. 

It's too good to last, and the consequences of their secrecy come to a head one autumn afternoon. Merlin's poking through one of his magic books in the soft afternoon light of Arthur's living room. He's fairly certain he read this book once before, maybe ten years ago, but he's mostly given up on actually discovering something about his own powers so he reads for pleasure nowadays, laughing at just how ridiculous some of the descriptions of magic are. 

His phone rings, and he glances down to see who's calling. It's Gwaine, and Merlin prepares himself for another afternoon spent dealing out romantic advice. After Elena and Arthur broke up, she and Gwaine began a little fling of their own and just last month, they decided to formally date one another. Gwaine, who'd never been with anyone for longer than a week, was predictably confused and had called Merlin on a daily basis for the past week.

"If this is about Elena again," he warns.

"Hello, is this Merlin?" asks a female, decidedly non-Gwaine voice.

"Yes," replies Merlin cautiously. "Who is this?"

"Morgana, Arthur's sister." A sense of foreboding falls over Merlin. He's met Morgana before, and she's always intimidated him. She's several years older than Arthur and about a hundred times smarter, though Merlin's never told Arthur the last part. After Uther Pendragon died, she assumed control of the Pendragon family business and had spent the past several years running it with an astounding business acumen. She traveled constantly and worked long hours, so despite knowing Arthur for four years, he's only talked with her three times over the past four years. 

"Why are you calling from Gwaine's phone?" he asks.

"Look," she says, her voice tight. "There's been an accident. Gwaine and Arthur, they were driving and a car ran a red light, rammed right into them." She pauses to allow the information to sink in. "I'm Arthur's next of kin, but no one's been able to reach Gwaine's, so I just called the first person who showed up on his recently-dialed screen. 

"Are they...I mean..." He can't bring himself to finish the thought.

"They're alive. Gwaine broke his leg and needed some stitches on his head, but Arthur's in surgery right now. He has some internal injuries they needed to fix."

It's so much information to process, and Merlin doesn't know where to begin. Elena, he needs to call Elena. He won't bother with Gwaine's parents--they've been estranged for years, and he's surprised Gwaine hasn't changed his next of kin--but he needs to call other people on the team, let them know. So many people, so much to do, and he can only think about Arthur.

"What, uh, sorry, what hospital are they at?" he chokes out.

She gives him the address, and he notes with detached amusement that it's the same hospital where Gwen works, even though there's nothing funny about the situation at all. He abandons his book and races outside to hail a cab. Once he's inside the taxi, he begins spreading the news. First he calls Elena, because she's the best person for Gwaine right now, then he reaches out to Lance. Lance promises to tell the rest of the team and also promises Merlin he'll be over as soon as possible. Merlin pays way too much for the cab, not bothering to wait for change, and sprints into the hospital. He finds Morgana in the waiting room, and her uncharacteristically demure demeanor terrifies him. He's never seen her display any weakness, anything less than the utmost confidence.

"Arthur?" he says, because it's the only thing he can say.

She shakes her head. "I'm still waiting. It took me a couple hours to get here, and I've been waiting for the past forty-five minutes, but the nurse said it might be at least another hour and a half."

Shit. He falls heavily into the seat next to hers. After a few moments, he remembers the other person he came here for. "What about Gwaine?"

"They can't tell me everything because I'm not family, but from what I understand, they needed to operate on his leg as well. He's in recovery now, should be available for visitors soon." She wraps an arm around herself unconsciously. "I can't believe this. I can't believe this is happening."

Neither can Merlin, but he's not sure more words will help either of them. Neither of them speaks until Elena bursts in through the door, hysterical and red-eyed. Merlin's concerned he might need to call a nurse to help her, but when a doctor emerges asking for the family of Gwaine Willas, she surprises all of them by lying through her teeth to convince the doctor she's actually Gwaine's fiancé. She explains how the ring is at the jewelers being resized, how it was all so recent that neither of them had updated their official paperwork, and she pleads and lies so convincingly Merlin's half believing her story. In the end, the doctor allows her to see him, and Elena promises to inform Merlin the moment the room is opened to non-family members.

Merlin and Morgana remain in the waiting room for another hour. Merlin flips through an old copy of a Sports Illustrated until he realizes he's accidentally singing the pages. He hastily shoves the magazine away and begins one of the meditation exercises he used as a child before he learned to control his power more consistently. Back then, his magic would flare up in sync with his emotions, and after he set one of the curtains on fire during an argument with his mother, she began teaching him breathing exercises to use whenever he became too angry. His control improved significantly after puberty, and he hasn't needed them in at least ten years, but it appears he needs them now.

_Breathe in, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven._  
Hold, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven.  
Breathe out, one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. 

If Morgana notices his behavior, she says nothing. She checks her phone once a minute as if expecting news about Arthur to flash across the screen. Once he's finished his meditation, Merlin checks his phone as well to see if anyone else has contacted him. Lance is probably still talking with the team managers or on his way as he hasn't sent a message.

At last, a doctor enters the room with Arthur's name on his lips. Both Merlin and Morgana stand up immediately, and Merlin needs to fight back the heat rising in his hands. _Not now_ , he thinks. _Control yourself._

The surgeon, whose name is Mordred, starts by informing them Arthur is alive. Merlin thinks for a moment he might just pass out with relief, making it the second time Arthur Pendragon caused him to faint, but he takes several deep breaths and remains standing. He misses some details in the conversation, but he definitely hears the last part of Mordred's statement. "Family only visiting until further notice." Morgana shoots Merlin a sympathetic look, but she doesn't hesitate to follow Mordred behind the double doors to where Arthur is, leaving Merlin behind, utterly alone.

He's not sure how long he stands there, but one of the nurses eventually asks him if he's alright. He automatically says yes and sits down in the chair he previously occupied, although this time without Morgana. It's amazing how he misses her presence now, if only because she was a warm body next to him. Eventually, Lance walks through the door accompanied by Percy, Owen and several other members of the team. They're all jittery, all nervous, but Lance takes one look at Merlin and knows something is wrong.

"What happened? Did you find out something? Where is Morgana?" he spits out rapid fire.

"They're both alive, and we should be allowed to see Gwaine soon once he's in a proper room, but," he gulps, "they're saying family only for Arthur for the foreseeable future."

Lance sighs. "Good news if they're both out of surgery."

It is, and Merlin knows this, but it isn't offering the comfort he craves. "They won't let me see him, Lance. They said family only, and I get it, but I should...he and I..." he stutters on the last words and cuts himself off before he reveals anything more. Then Lance's eyes widen and he knows he's said enough.

"Oh," he says. "You two...oh. That explains so much. How long?"

There's no point in denying anything, and Merlin doesn't have the will to do it even if he wanted to. "We're never made anything official, but, if you count from the first time we slept together, five months."

"Five months!" exclaims Lance. "Have you told anyone?"

Merlin shakes his head. "You're the first. It didn't seem too important to tell anyone until now."

"Not important," sputters Lance in disbelief. "Merlin, in all the time I've known you, nothing's ever been as important to you as Arthur."

Merlin flushes. "That's not true. I have you and Gwen and my mother--"

"--and you love us very much, I have never doubted that. But Merlin, you traveled to France on the week your lit review was due because you heard Arthur dislocated his shoulder. You have always dropped everything the moment you believed Arthur might need you. It's not a bad thing, it's just a fact."

Merlin slumps in his chair. Lance is right, and it's impossible to refute his arguments. Arthur began as the man whose presence affected Merlin's magic, a sort of mystery to explore, but now that he's sitting here, desperately aching to see him, it's not the mystery Merlin wants to visit, it's Arthur himself. He wants to hold Arthur's hand and kiss Arthur's lips and listen to Arthur's stupid jokes, regardless of how his magic reacts. He realizes with a sudden clarity that if it came down to Arthur or his magic, he would choose Arthur any day because the way he feels around Arthur, it's better than anything his magic's ever given him.

Lance sense Merlin's distress, so he takes the seat next to Merlin where Morgana sat less than half an hour ago. He wraps an arm around Merlin's shoulders and squeezes his arms. "He's alive, Merlin. The moment you can, you'll be in there, and you have all of us to support you. I promise." Percy and Owen, who have been eavesdropping on the tail end of the conversation, nod emphatically in agreement.

It's the best he can ask for at the moment. When he receives a text from Elena notifying him that the doctor just cleared Gwaine for other visitors, he joins the group in their journey to his room. Gwaine is incredibly high, far too doped up to really follow the conversation taking place around him, but it's good to see him smile and laugh, even if he's five seconds late in reacting. Gwen brings by flowers during her break, and Merlin pretend he's not sick with worry for a moment.

The accident happens on a Wednesday, and the doctor gives permission for non-family visitors on Friday. Merlin receives Morgana's text notifying him of the change and wastes no time in making the trip. On the ride over, he trembles with nerves. Morgana has kept him informed about Arthur's status, but seeing him is so different from reading text messages. When he finally reaches the door to Arthur's room, he takes several deep breaths before walking in.

Arthur is awake, though just barely. Morgana sits in a chair by the bed, but she stands up when she sees Merlin. "I'll get some coffee now," she says, and Merlin wonders how much she's inferred about their relationship. Merlin takes her place, and he grabs Arthur's hand, pressing a soft kiss to the palm.

"Merlin," Arthur whispers in wonderment. "Was wondering when you'd show up."

Merlin wants to cry. "They wouldn't let me see you," he says. "I wanted so badly, but they wouldn't let me in."

This information seems to confuse Arthur. "Stupid," he murmurs. "Doesn't make sense."

Merlin chuckles a little, because wow, he forgot how Arthur can be when drugged to the gills. If the situation were less serious, he might let himself laugh freely at the look of intense concentration Arthur's wearing, but the beeping machines, the tubes, and the corpse-like pallor of Arthur's face drain most of the humor away. "They were only letting family in," he says. "I don't count as family."

Arthur's frown deepens. "But important. Most important."

Merlin can't help himself--a few tears slip out. In the aftermath of his talk with Lance, he recognized Arthur as the most important person or thing in his life, but he never assumed Arthur reciprocated those feelings. Sure, Arthur initiated their relationship all those months ago, but unlike Merlin, he doesn't have a constant tingling sensation practically screaming, this man is special. This man is important. Arthur's words ache, like a hand squeezing at his heart, but not necessarily in a bad way. It's a happy ache, like the one in his body after sex or in his mind after he finishes a difficult spell. 

"I know, I know," says Merlin, and Arthur smiles. His eyes drift shut, and his breathing evens to the steady pace of one in the midst of a deep, restful sleep. Merlin holds Arthur's hand and doesn't relinquish his grip even once Morgana returns, two coffees in tow. She doesn't blink at the sight of Merlin holding Arthur's hand, just holds out one of the cups.

"I added some sugar," she says. "You seem like the type."

Merlin accepts the cup gratefully and sips it cautiously. It tastes far better than he imagines hospital coffee ought to.

"I had my assistant buy this at one of the local cafes nearby," she says, sipping her own beverage delicately. "I tasted the shit they serve here yesterday, and I'm not about to repeat the experience."

Merlin gapes at her. He's never heard Morgana swear before, and he assumed she simply didn't on principle, not if she could spend time around the rest of the team and keep a clean mouth. She smirks at his surprise. "If you're dating my brother, I think I can drop some pretensions."

Merlin nods, swallows another mouthful of coffee.

"One more thing," she says, "and then I'm leaving because I need to escape this place for more than fifteen minutes." She looks him directly in the eyes, and Merlin notices they're the same, piercing blue as Arthur's, although inexplicably more unsettling. "My brother values honesty more than anything else. If you really love him, you will be honest with him."

The hair on the back of his neck prickles. "I already am," he says hoarsely.

She raises her eyebrows, but says nothing more, just walks out the door with her heels clacking loudly on the floor. Unbidden, magic sparks in the hand touching Arthur, and Merlin withdraws it for fear of waking Arthur. When Arthur sleeps steadily on, he Merlin sighs in relief and settles into the chair for the hours to come.

 

When Arthur is released from the hospital after two weeks, there are several changes. Firstly, a small circle of people now know about their relationship: close friends, family, and select members of the team. Arthur’s coach knows, and so does his agent, thought that’s more to cover their asses in case some idiot leaks information. The latter two are remarkably calm about the revelation, and Arthur’s agent privately confides in Merlin that the coach has performed so much damage control for Gwaine over the past years it’s a relief to work with someone else. 

Secondly, there is a relationship to talk about. The moment Arthur regains some degree of lucidity, Merlin tells him he wants a real relationship, not some loosely-defined friends-with-benefits arrangement, which is probably the best description for their prior situation. Arthur agrees, and then promptly throws up because one of the medications he’s taking causes nausea in certain, fortunate individuals. Merlin takes the vomiting in stride and tries to dampen his own nausea which flares up at the smell. He also gains a new respect for Gwen as he observes how truly disgusting medicine can be and feels happier than ever the worst smell he’s come across in his line of work is musty paper.

Lastly, Merlin moves in with Arthur. Not officially, and he still pays rent on his old apartment, but in the weeks following Arthur’s release, Merlin only visits his old home to water his plants and practice his magic. He gives the first excuse to Arthur as a reason for not moving in completely, says moving all of the clutter and organizing his belongings would require energy he can’t spare right now. It’s partially true; Merlin moves in with Arthur not only because they’re romantically involved but also because Arthur still requires significant help. There’s a whole laundry list of activities to avoid, including, but no limited to, lifting heavy objects, bending over too far, standing for more than an hour at a time and sex. The last one is definitely an annoyance, but as Merlin slips on Arthur’s socks and shoes in the morning (it’s too far for him to bend over just yet) he thinks all of them are annoyances and sex isn’t necessarily the worse one. Arthur also sleeps twelve hours a day and follows a strict medication schedule which Merlin memorizes because he knows Arthur won’t. All in all, living with Arthur is (temporarily) a great deal of work, and Merlin’s also in the last year of his doctoral program, meaning in less than a year’s time he will be defending his thesis to a panel of stuffy, ancient and arrogant professors. The prospect terrifies him, but he works harder than ever to accommodate the time lost after the accident.

Their arrangement works for a while, works for months actually, but by the spring, Merlin’s running out of excuses. Arthur is completely healthy and consuming no medication at all; in fact, he’s stronger than he was before due to an intensive rehabilitation and strength training program. Merlin is still busy with his dissertation, but definitely not too busy to finally make the move, and Arthur reminds him of this daily.

“Got the bills today,” he says, flipping through the morning’s post. “I tell you, living’s not cheap.” 

“Hmm,” Merlin hums. Arthur’s job as a professional football player lets him afford an apartment twice the size of his current one, but that’s not the point. 

“Can’t imagine your place is cheap either,” he says casually.

“It is what is,” snaps Merlin, and Arthur backs off until the following week when the same conversation occurs again. Arthur’s also increasingly curious about why Merlin never lets anyone into his apartment.

“Are you hiding dead bodies in there? Is that why no one’s allowed?” he asks one evening as they’re chopping vegetables for the salad.

“Yes, Arthur, that’s exactly what it is,” replies Merlin sarcastically.

Arthur chops his carrots in silence, and Merlin hopes he’ll drop the issue, but the gods of fortune are not smiling on him today. Instead of leaving well enough alone, he presses further. “Well, there must be something. I know you like privacy, but we’ve been together for nearly a year. What’s so bad? If it’s clutter, I assure you I can handle it. I already deal with your book towers and paper piles in here.”

Merlin breathes in and out several times in an attempt to calm himself. “I’ve explained it to you before. It’s important for me to have a space all to myself.”

“So make a study here! Or keep the space, but at least let me see it!” he exclaims. Merlin flinches. “God, Merlin, I’ve shared everything with you. I have never lied to you, and I don’t see why it’s so hard on your end.”

“You told me you’d seen Lord of the Rings. That was a lie,” mutters Merlin, but it just serves to stoke the flames.

“Let me rephrase,” says Arthur, seething. “I have never lied to you about anything that matters, and no, Lord of the Rings does not matter, not like what we’re talking about.” Merlin remains silent, so Arthur continues. “I know when you’re lying because you can never maintain eye contact. Every time I bring up the apartment, you look away, so even if you do need some personal space, it’s not the full story.”

“Why is my explanation so hard to believe?” says Merlin, and he can’t help the bitterness tinging his voice. “What is so hard for you to understand?”

“Because it’s not true! The one time I visited you, you acted like a ghost just walked into your house. You wouldn’t stop fidgeting, and you flinched any time I touched one of your books. There’s something else going on here, and quite frankly, it doesn’t matter what it is so long as you tell me the truth!”

Merlin puts down his knife and meets Arthur’s gaze head on. “The truth is, what I’ve told you is the most you’re going to get from me.”

“It’s not enough,” Arthur says. “Maybe you can’t understand it, maybe you’re wired differently, but for me it’s not enough.”

My brother values honesty more than anything else, Morgana had told him, and Merlin is just now realizing how right she is. He’s also realizing it’s the one thing in the world he can’t offer Arthur, and the kitchen knife might as well just stab him in the heart because surely dying would be less painful than the slow, ripping sensation in his chest.

“Then I’m sorry, Arthur,” he whispers. “I’m sorry, but I think I need to leave.” He backs away from the counter. “I think I need to be somewhere else.”

His response clearly shocks Arthur, but neither one of them is prepared to retract their words. Merlin turns around and walks out of the apartment and doesn’t stop walking until he reaches his own flat and then he sits down at the small dining room table and looks around. His body feels impossibly small in the cramped room, surrounded by books and posters and the few plants he’s kept here these past months. 

“Shit,” he mutters. “Shit, shit, shit.” The table feels warm beneath his grip, and when he removes his hand, a scorch mark stares back at him accusingly. It reminds him this is why he needs his space. Living with someone else, having no guarantee of privacy and no chance to release his power leads to accidents. Even when he roomed with Lance in college, he still had his own separate bedroom outside of their shared common area. If he lives completely with Arthur, they will share everything inch of the apartment, and he will never be safe. Arthur will never be safe. 

He pulls out of his phone.

To: Lance  
From: Merlin  
_I need you to pick up my things from Arthur’s flat. Even if you can’t get everything, please grab my dissertation books. They’re the ones on the desk in the living room._

After a minute, his phone buzzes with the reply.

To: Merlin  
From: Lance  
_Are you okay? What’s going on?_

Merlin sighs. He knows Lance must have a million questions and a million solutions in his head for all of their problems, but none of them will work. He just needs his possessions.

To: Lance  
From: Merlin  
_I can’t explain everything right now, but please, Lance, I need you to do this for me._

He waits a long moment before Lance replies. Okay, reads the text and it’s the most he can hope for.

In half an hour, his phone buzzes and Merlin’s heart sinks when he sees who it is.

To: Merlin  
From: Arthur  
_Merlin, wtf? Lance just showed up asking for all of your things._

Merlin’s hands tingle with barely suppressed energy. It’s almost as bad as the episode at the hospital. He needs to meditate, or he’s going to burn something.

To: Merlin  
From: Arthur  
_I’m letting Lance take your books, but we need to talk._

Breathe in.

_Please respond. We can work this out._

One.

_Merlin, I know you’re seeing these_

Two.

_I understand if you’re mad, but this doesn’t need to be it_

Three.

The phone rings once. _Four._ Rings again. _Five_. Ring. _Six._ Ring. _Seven._ Ring. 

_Hold._

Merlin doesn’t pick up the phone.

 

What follows Merlin’s departure is easily the worst month of his life. Lance drops off all of Merlin’s belongings after a week because he’s the only one besides Arthur who knows the address. He looks like he wants to say so many things, but he settles for, “Is that all?”

They’re talking outside of Merlin’s apartment because even if Lance knows where Merlin lives, it doesn’t mean he’s allowed to come inside.

“That’s all,” says Merlin and he slams the door.

It’s both the best and worst time for a breakup. Merlin’s dissertation is due in at the end of the month, so he hunkers down and works non-stop, anything to act as a distraction from the constant ache in his chest. The pain and the loneliness hurt and definitely hinder his progress, but however bad they are, they don’t hold a candle to his magic. Ever since that night, Merlin’s magic has developed a mind of its own. It flares up when Merlin is cooking, causing him to melt one of his good knives, and it sparks along his skin at night, preventing him from obtaining any real sleep. Not that he has much time for sleep anyways. He resorts to using magic to keep himself awake, burning it like he might burn energy, a tactic he hasn’t employed since preparing his thesis in college because siphoning away magic like fuel can be dangerous. He’s never entirely sure when he might run out. It’s odd that his powers now react to Arthur’s absence when once they behaved unpredictably around his presence. Merlin thinks it might be the result of months of exposure to Arthur—after enough time, his default settings adjusted and now he simply needs to recalibrate once more.

Various members of the football team reach out to Merlin, but he ignores them all. He even ignores Lance and Gwen, telling them he just needs to focus on his dissertation for now. Lance even calls Will, Merlin’s old childhood friend, but anything outside of his work is a distraction he can’t afford. Besides, he’s not sure he won’t zap someone’s hand off the moment he touches them. He misses his friends, but not nearly as much as he misses Arthur.

Arthur calls several times a day for the first week and sends over a hundred text messages, Facebook messages, and even several emails ranging in length from a single sentence to full paragraphs. Merlin reads through every single one and responds to none of them. He still jumps each time the phone rings, but the calls grow less frequent as the month wears on and soon only Merlin, his apartment and his books remain.

Four days before his defense, the situation worsens. After a night of fitful tossing and turning and sparking, Merlin abandons the idea of sleep altogether and simply works. He drinks coffee and burns through his magic because the thought of eating repulses him, and on the day of his defense, he’s not sure how much of him is still human and how much is now coffee beans but his dissertation is done and he marches over to greet the panel who will decide his future.

At this point, Merlin knows every single fact about Medieval Western European history there is to know. He quotes full paragraphs from the original source like they’re common nursery rhymes, ingrained into his head irreversibly. He speaks eloquently about the role of conquest in shaping cultural beliefs (including belief in religion and magic, which are inextricably linked in that time period) and by the end of his defense, Merlin thinks Gaius actually looks proud.

Finally, there’s only time for one more question. One of the examiners, a man with more liverspots than functional hair follicles, raises a shaky hand. “I was wondering if you could contextualize the myth of King Arthur with your argument.”

Merlin nods. “Yes, the myth of King Arthur…” _Arthur. Arthur. Arthur._ The name rings in his ears. He hasn’t spoken it aloud since their last fight.

“Go on,” says the examiner.

Merlin clears his throat. “As I was saying, Arthur—

The name catches in his throat. He opens his mouth, but no words come out. He tries even harder to say the name, but instead of speaking, he begins trembling instead. He tries to stop it, tries to use his magic halt the tremors and the lights flicker. His hands heat up.

 _No_ , he thinks. _Not now._ He breathes in and out deeply, but the tremors worsen and his body buzzes like someone is running a mild electrical current through it. One of the lights overhead bursts, showering the examiners with shattered glass. They yelp in surprise, except for Gaius who’s calling Merlin’s name.

“Merlin,” he says. “Merlin, can you hear me?”

He wants to say yes, he truly does. He opens his mouth again and there’s no stopping the power flowing out of him now. It rolls off in waves, delivering heat and light and maybe even sound until at last the remaining lights in the room burst open with a cacophonous bang and Merlin’s not sure which comes first, the darkness of the room or the darkness from his own descent into unconsciousness. Either way, the last thing he sees is Gaius reaching towards him, but it’s too late to do anything and Merlin knows no more. 

 

He wakes up in a blindingly white room, so bright and unlike his last memories that Merlin wonders if he’s reached Heaven. He’s not religious by any stretch of the imagination—it’s hard to be when your powers defy all teachings of the Church—but it seems like a logical explanation for the moment. Then he sees Arthur’s face and he knows it must be heaven.

“Merlin? Merlin? Are you awake?” Arthur asks. His eyes are wild, and his hair sticks out in fifteen different direction, each strand its own entity.

“Yes,” Merlin croaks out and then winces because his throat feels scorched. “Am I dead?”

Arthur chuckles, which turns into a laugh, which turns into an even more hysterical laugh until he’s gasping for breath. Merlin doesn’t see the humor.

“You’re not dead, Merlin, but I thought you were. I thought you were going to die,” says Arthur when at last he can breathe again. “You’re in the hospital now.”

None of this makes any sense to Merlin, so he asks, “What happened?”

Arthur’s expression turns grave. “What happened is you passed out at the end of your defense. Apparently there was some sort of electrical surge which blew out the lights, and by the time everyone could see again, you were on the floor, not moving, barely breathing.” Arthur’s blue eyes meet Merlin’s, and Merlin drinks in the sight of them. “The doctors said you were exhausted, probably hadn’t slept in several days. You were also dehydrated and suffering from low blood sugar, but the exhaustion was the worst.”

He remembers now—the not sleeping, the not eating, the only drinking coffee. A crash was inevitable. “What time is it?”

Arthur glances down at his watch. “It is currently 12:36 pm on Saturday April 26th.”

Saturday. Merlin’s thesis defense was scheduled for Thursday, which means he must have slept for nearly two entire days. Two days is a long time, and he wonders how much of Arthur has spent with him. “You?” he says hoarsely. “How long have you been here?”

Arthur’s expression darkens. “They didn’t let me see you at first, said only immediate family was allowed. I’m only here now because Morgana managed to pull some strings, forge some paperwork making me your next of kin. She needed twelve hours to accomplish whatever it is she did, so I guess that means I’ve been in this room for the past thirty hours or so.”

Arthur’s face is grim, and his brow is furrowed, and dark circles sit under his eyes and he’s so beautiful and Merlin can think of no one else he wants to see more right now. “Thank you,” he whispers. “Most important.”

One of the machines begins blaring loudly. Merlin doesn’t know why until he feels a soft tingling along his skin, and he realizes his magic is manifesting itself again. One of the nurses comes in to investigate, and, finding the situation normal, adjusts one of the settings on the offending machine and leaves.

“That happens a lot around you,” says Arthur. He pauses for a moment. “When I first was allowed in to see you, I had to leave almost immediately because all of the machines suddenly shorted out. They had to replace most of them.” He shakes his head. “I know it seems impossible, but I swear I saw sparks flying around you. I thought maybe it was from the electrical surge, but the doctors said there’s no way any residual electricity would hang around. I must have been hallucinating.”

It’s time for Merlin to make a decision. Arthur has seen Merlin’s magic with his own eyes, but he’s created an explanation for it. Merlin can lie or say he doesn’t know. He can continue to hide and shut Arthur Pendragon out of his life once more. He can do all of that, or he risk everything on his faith in Arthur and try to tell him the truth. Honesty is easy for Arthur, but it’s the most difficult thing in the world for Merlin.

“You’re not hallucinating,” says Merlin, then clears his throat. “It did come from me.”

Arthur’s confusion deepens. “So, you are channeling electricity?”

“Not electricity. Magic.” Merlin leaves space in the air for Arthur to respond, but Arthur remains silent. “I have magic, Arthur. That’s what I’ve been hiding from you.”

“You have…magic? Like a wizard or something?” Arthur asks.

“Maybe. I don’t know what the correct term is, but wizard is close enough.”

Arthur leans back in his chair. He doesn’t speak for a long moment, and Merlin fears he’s lost Arthur once again. But then he speaks, and his tone implies curiosity more than loathing or revulsion or terror. “Your magic…what can it do?”

Merlin shrugs. “I can move things with my mind, set things on fire, affect electronic devices. The electrical surge you mentioned—that was me. I’m not entirely sure how it works.”

“So you deliberately blew out all of the lights?”

“No, no,” says Merlin, and there’s so much to explain and despite nearly two days of sleep he feels like he could sleep for another two more. “Usually, I can control it, but sometimes it gets out of hand. You…you in particular have an effect on it. First time we met.”

“You mean you just went into a magical freak out? That’s why you passed out?” says Arthur incredulously.

“Don’t know why. I’ve never experienced anything like it before.” Merlin yawns widely. “You’ve always been special.”

“Special,” repeats Arthur, and he seems to savor the word. “Special.”

“Magically speaking,” clarifies Merlin. “Or at least to me you are.”

Arthur smiles a slow, warming smile that melts away any lingering uncertainties in Merlin’s chest. “Special,” he repeats.

Merlin wants to continue the conversation, he really does, but his eyes have other plans. He blinks several times in an effort to keep them open, but he’s fighting a losing battle. “Talk later,” he murmurs sleepily. “So much to tell you.”

“I’ll be right here,” promises Arthur. “Don’t worry, I’m not going anywhere.”

With the strength of Arthur’s promise behind him and the sweetness of the future before him, Merlin allows himself to fall into his first restful sleep in weeks.

 

One month after Merlin wakes up is a very special day. He receives a letter notifying him that despite the ruckus towards the end of his defense, Merlin has received his degree and with honors no less. Arthur kisses him soundly, lifts him up, and twirls him around the flat like they’re in some cliché romantic comedy. It’s amazing news, and Merlin can’t believe that after five long years, he’s finally received the diploma he’s dreamed about since he was a young boy. The thought of it makes him as giddy as a schoolgirl. 

Even more importantly, though, May 26th is the day Merlin moves the last box out of his old apartment. He stands in the middle of the empty living room, surveying the open space around him. It feels foreign without the clutter and mess of books, and it also feels smaller, too tight. It had served its purpose in his life, but he no longer needs its protection. He has Arthur for that now.

Merlin walks out of the empty room without a backward glance and walks into the warmth and safety of Arthur’s embrace.


End file.
